UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


I  KT  < 


JAN  1895        .  ,,«< 
^Accessions  No.tfr7Ttf'2-%  •        CLns  No. 


University  of  California  .  Berkeley 


/- 

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POEMS 


BY 


SARAH    E.    CARMICHAEL 


A   BRIEF  SELECTION,   PUBLISHED   BY  PERMISSION   OF  THE 
AUTHORESS,   FOR  PRIVATE  CIRCULATION. 


SAN    FRANCISCO  : 

TOWNE    AND    BACON,     PUBLISHERS 
1866. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

SARAH   E.   CARMICHAEL, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Third  District  of  Utali 


EXCELSIOR  PRESS  —  TOWNE  &  BACON. 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

INTRODUCTORY ., v 

APRIL  FLOWERS 7 

SIXTY-FOUR  AND  SIXTY-FIVE 9 

LAKE  TAHOE 12 

DEAD 14 

NIGHT  AFTER  THE  BATTLE 16 

PRESIDENT  LINCOLN'S  FUNERAL 21 

STOLEN  SUNBEAM 25 

MOONRISE  ON  THE  WASATCH 28 

CALIFORNIA 31 

WILD- WOOD  BLOSSOMS 33 

THE  WOUNDED  BIRD 35 

ASHES  TO  ASHES 37 

THE  PATRIOT  DEAD 42 

THE  FLAG  AT  SUMTER 44 

THE  MINES 46 

AMPUTATED 50 

ONLY  ONE 52 

SORROW 54 

PASSAGE.  OF  THE  RED  SEA 55 


111 


Table  of  Contents. 

LACHAON'S  LAMENT 59 

PERSEVERANCE 61 

ALLIE'S  PRAYER 63 

WILD  WINTER  WINDS 65 

THE  WRECKED 66 

FAITH 69 

STANZAS 71 


INTRODUCTORY. 


THE  selection  of  verses  to  which  this  introduces  the  reader 
is  published  with  the  consent  —  somewhat  reluctantly  given — 
of  the  authoress,  by  a  devoted  circle  of  her  friends  and  admirers, 
who  design  thus  to  preserve  an  early  memento  of  her  talents 
and  genius  as  a  writer;  and  by  its  circulation  among  kindred 
spirits,  who  as  yet  are  strangers  to  her  muse,  secure  for  her 
poems  a  more  extended  acquaintance  and  recognition. 

It  will  hardly  be  deemed  a  matter  of  local  prejudice  merely, 
that  this  friendly  alliance  dotes  upon  the  fact  that  so  gifted  a 
child  of  song  has  been  vouchsafed  to  the  remote  and  obscure 
region  of  country  known  as  the  Valley  of  Great  Salt  Lake.  It 
is  indeed  regarded  by  them  as  worthy  of  more  than  ordinary 
note,  that,  in  such  a  secluded  spot  —  shut  out  from  the  world  at 
large  by  the  frowning  barriers  of  the  Rocky  Mountains ;  with- 
out the  advantages  of  books  and  intellectual  training;  without 
the  soul-expanding  influences  of  a  cultivated  and  liberal  public 
sentiment ;  away  from  the  softer  elements  of  natural  beauty, 
and  having  nothing  but  her  own  heart  to  commune  with — her 
songs  have  taken  so  wide  and  glorious  a  flight;  ever  loyal  to 
truth  and  humanity,  ever  sweet  and  melodious  as  the  voice  of 
nature. 


Introductory. 

That  the  authoress  does  not  share  in  the  high  appreciation 
of  her  efforts  entertained  by  others,  is  evinced  by  the  following- 
fragment  from  an  apologetic  poem,  recently  published. 

"  Ah !  woman's  quick,  impulsive  thought 
Hath  an  impatient  wing ; 
Yet,  in  the  grasp  of  reason  caught, 
'Tis  but  a  fragile  thing  — 

*  *  *  * 

Ephemeral  thing  !   unwisely  sought ! 
Who  cares  to  win  a  woman's  thought?" 

To  this,  the  liberty  is  taken  of  replying  in  the  cheering  lan- 
guage of  an  intimate  and  sympathetic  female  friend. 

"  Trust  thou  thy  muse,  and  let 
Thy  thought  untrammeled  soar; 
Our  souls  would  drink  with  pleasure 
The  music  of  each  measure 
Thy  spirit  shall  outpour. 

#  #  *  * 
Trust  still  thy  woman  heart, 
That  love  and  truth  holds  dear; 
And  still  thy  woman  thought, 
With  so  much  beauty  fraught, 
Shall  echo  far  and  near." 

GREAT  SALT  LAKE  CITY,  June  ist,  1866. 


V) 


APRIL    FLOWERS. 


PALE  flowers,  pale  flowers,  ye  came  too  soon ; 

The  North,  with  icy  breath, 
Hath  whispered  hoarsely  through  the  skies 

A  word  that  spoke  of  death. 
Ye  came  too  soon  —  the  Spring's  first  glance, 

In  this  cold  clime  of  ours, 
Is  but  the  shine  of  Winter's  lance  — 

Ye  came  too  soon,  pale  flowers! 

Pale,  rain-drenched  flowers,  ye  came  to  greet 

The  young  Spring's  earliest  call, 
As  untaught  hearts  leap  forth  to  meet 

Loved  footsteps  in  the  hall  : 
Ye  came  —  beneath,  the  snow-wreath  lies  ; 

Above,  the  storm-cloud  lowers  ; 
Around,  the  breath  of  winter  sighs  — 

Ye  came  too  soon,  pale  flowers. 


April  Flowers. 


Pale,  blighted  flowers,  the  summer  time 

Will  smile  on  brighter  leaves ; 
They  will  not  wither  in  their  prime, 

Like  a  young  heart  that  grieves  ; 
But  the  impulsive  buds  that  dare 

The  chill  of  April  showers, 
Breathe  woman-love's  low  martyr  prayer 

I  kiss  your  leaves,  pale  flowers. 


SIXTY-FOUR  AND   SIXTY-FIVE. 


"  Good  bye,  old  friend ! "   and  the  bright  young  year 

Sprang  through  his  palace  door, 
And  grasped  the  cold,  unsteady  hand 

Of  the  dying  sixty-four  : 
Mournfully  glittered  the  young  king's  tear, 

On  the  old  king's  locks  of  snow  — 
"You  are  passing  fast  from  the  world,  old  year, 
Yet  bless  me  ere  you  go. 


Your  eye  is  dim,  and  your  hand  is  cold, 

Yet  in  the  'Auld  lang  syne' 
Your  breast  had  a  measure  of  life's  red  gold 

As  wide  and  deep  as  mine; 
And  you  know,  old  king,  I   only  ask 

Of  the  world  a  place  to  stand  — 
Room  for  my  head,  room  for  my  heart, 

Room  for  the  sweep  of  my  hand. 


Sixty-Four  and  Sixty-Five. 

"  Yet  I  kneel  with  reverence  at  your  feet, 

For  I  feel  that  a  life  well  clone 
Towers  far,  in  majesty  complete, 

O'er  the  brightest  of  lives  begun  : 
I  kneel  at  your  feet,  old  year,  I  kneel, 

Bent  by  my  strength  of  pride ; 
I  am  proud,  most  proud,  of  the  power  to  feel 

Honor  for  talents  tried ; 

"  Honor  for  lives  that  have  proved  their  strength 

Honor  for  aims  attained  — 
Many  can  boast  of  an  arrow's  length, 

Few  of  a  target  gained  : 
You  are  passing  fast  from  the  world,  old  year, 

Your  pulse  is  ebbing  low ; 
Yet  look  on  the  young  life  kneeling  here, 

And  bless  me  ere  you  go." 

The  old  year  smiled  yet  mournfully, 

For  his  lips  we.re  growing  cold  ; 
He  said  :  "  I  bless  thee  —  thou  shalt  be 

Revered  when  thou  art  old  — 
And  this  I  deem  the  proudest  thing 

Existence  can  bestow ; 
The  pearls  that  crown  earth's  greatest  king 

Are  honored  locks  of  snow. 


10 


Sixty-Four  and  Sixty-Five. 


"I  do  bless  thee,  young  year  —  thy  glance 

Shines  to  my  failing  sight 
Like  flashing  steel  of  a  fearless  lance, 

Uplifted  for  the  right; 
Thy  hand  is  warm,  and  firm,  and  strong, 

And  the  bright  head  bowing  here 
Will  never  bend  before  the  wrong  — 

I  do  bless  thee,  young  year ! " 


1 1 


LAKE    TAHOE.* 


Lake  Tahoe,  sweetest  lake  of  lakes ! 
The  vision  of  thy  beauty  breaks 
With  startling  power  upon  the  eye ! 
A  sheen  of  water  gleaming  high 
Above  the  tall  dark-pointed  pines  : 
Apparently  thy  wave  inclines 
Toward  the  sun,  who  pauses  there 
To  dress  his  long,  bright  amber  hair ; 
And  many  a  loose,  thick,  shining  tress 
Twines  round  thee  in  a  warm  caress ; 
Nor  does  thy  bosom's  picture  slight 
His  most  impassioned  glance  of  light ; 
The  day,  whose  smile  thy  mirror  takes, 
Hath  named  thee  sweetest  lake  of  lakes. 

Lake  Tahoe,  sweetest  lake  of  lakes ! 
The  crescent  moon  oft  overtakes 
And  tramples  on  the  soft  white  feet 
Of  day,  unwilling  to  retreat 

*  A  beautiful  crystal  lake,  situated  on  the  summit  of  the  Sierra  Nevada 
Mountains,  which  separate  Nevada  from  California. 

12 


Lake  Tahoe. 


From  the  deep  tide  that  charms  its  sense 
By  a  heart-worship  so  intense  : 
Oh,  pale  amethyst  gem  that  shines, 
Clasping  the  leafy  crown  that  twines 
The  proud  sierra's  cold,  pure  brow  — 
Shine  on,  forever,  fair  as  now ! 
Glow,  many-tinted  water,  glow ! 
There  is  no  brighter  wave  below  — 
The  night,  that  mournfully  forsakes, 
Hath  named  thee  sweetest  lake  of  lakes. 


Lake  Tahoe,  sweetest  Jake  of  lakes  ! 

A  thought  of  awe  intense  awakes 

Within  the  heart  that  lingers  where 

Thy  tranquil  bosom  slumbers  fair, 

Like  a  bright  tear  of  pitying  love, 

Wept  warm  from  heavens  that  lean  above, 

When  the  white  stars  come  out  to  see 

How  lovely  this  hushed  world  can  be ; 

And  view,  with  tranced  and  wondering  eyes, 

Thee,  looking  upward  to  the  skies, 

So  beautiful,  they  half  forget 

That  earth  is  not  an  Eden  yet  — 

I,  in  whose  dreams  thy  beauty  wakes, 

Have  named  thee  sweetest  lake  of  lakes. 


DEAD. 


Weep  for  the  dead !     Not  those  who  gave 
The  dust  that  fills  a  patriot's  grave ; 

Not  for  the  true  arm  still  and  cold ; 
Not  for  the  breast  that  the  grasses  fold  ; 
Not  for  the  bright  form  under  the  mold  ; 

Not  for  the  heart  that  bled. 
But  weep,  O  weep  for  the  coward  vein ! 
Dead,  for  it  had  no  pulse  to  drain ; 
Dead,  for  it  could  not  feel  a  pain ; 

Dead  to  the  core  —  dead  ! 
Dead  as  a  soulless  sentence  spoke ; 
Dead  as  a  useless  promise  broke ; 
Dead  as  a  sightless  eye  awoke  : 
Dead! 

Weep  for  the  dead !     Not  those  who  went 
Home  by  the  stab  of  a  traitor  sent ; 

Not  for  the  smile  we  see  no  more ; 

Not  for  the  love  on  the  Aiden  shore ; 


Dead. 

Not  for  the  life  whose  pain  is  o'er ; 

Not  for  the  spirit  fled. 
Yet  weep  for  the  bosom  numb  and  still ! 
Dead,  for  it  felt  no  patriot  thrill ; 
Dead,  for  it  had  no  life  to  spill ; 

Dead  to  the  core  —  dead  ! 
Dead  as  the  hate  of  an  idiot  glance; 
Dead  as  the  steel  of  a  broken  lance  ; 
Dead  as  a  last  neglected  chance  : 
Dead ! 

Weep  for  the  dead !     Not  those  who  claim 
Immortal  life  on  the  scroll  of  Fame ; 

Not  for  the  soul  that  feared  but  shame ; 
Not  for  the  life  that  reached  its  aim ; 
Not  for  the  step  that  marked  in  flame 

Print  of  a  hero's  tread. 

Weep  for  the  dead  that  breathe  and  speak  ! 
Dead,  with  a  life  bloom  on  the  cheek; 
Dead,  for  they  have  no  aim  to  seek ; 

Dead  to  the  core  —  dead  ! 
Dead  as  the  use  of  a  wasted  hour ; 
Dead  as  the  dew  on  a  poison  flower ; 
Dead  as  a  soul's^  crime-palsied  power : 
Dead! 


NIGHT  AFTER  THE   BATTLE. 


I  waited  there  on  the  battle  field  when  the  tumult  of 
strife  was  done ; 

There  with  the  dead,  while  the  black-browed  earth 
reeled  dizzily  over  the  sun, 

And  the  sullen  moments  crept  away,  with  a  noise- 
less, ghostly  tread ; 

There,  with  the  pallid  poppy  leaves  of  slumber  around 
me  spread 

On  the  hand,  and  brow,  and  lip,  and  heart,  of  the 
dying  and  the  dead. 

The  wound  on  my  head  ached  wearily ;  the  wound 
on  my  bosom  bled, 

Till  I  scarce  could  pray  with  the  fainting  lip,  where 
the  passionate  fever  fed. 

Vet,  oh !  how  I  longed  for  a  drop  of  dew  from  the 
clear,  cold,  starry  skies, 

To  cool  the  heavy  lids  that  pressed  hot  on  my  sleep- 
less eyes. 


16 


Night  after  the  Battle. 

A    boy  —  ah,   yes,   he    was   little   more  —  slept   in    a 

death-trance  there, 
So  near  that   his   rigid   fingers   twined  a  lock  of  my 

matted  hair; 
And  one,  in  the   form  of  a  manhood's   prime,  threw 

his  strong  arm  over  my  breast ; 
It    thrilled    me    once    with    its    power   of  pain,  then 

crushed  with  its  weight  of  rest ; 
And  I  heard,  in  the  silence,  the  low  drip,  drip,  of  a 

heart  that  was  weeping  near, 
And  struggled  —  but  vainly  —  to  stir  my  lip,  and  pray 

for  a  deafened  ear. 


Oh !  ye  who  waltz  with  the  jeweled  night  to  pleasure's 
quick  music-beat, 

And  find  the  day  where  its  fingers  white  strew  blos- 
soms around  your  feet, 

Ye  never  can  make  your  moments  reach,  by  eking 
them  out  for  years, 

A  power  of  expression  to  meet  the  speech  of  a  night 
like  that  appears  : 

I  know  that  the  strong,  deep  pulse  of  Time  quietly, 
steadily  throbs, 

Though  its  breath  is  shortened  to  laughter's  trills,  or 
drawn  to  the  length  of  sobs ; 

B*  17 


Night  after  the  Battle. 


Yet,   oh !    that    fathomless  gulf  that    surged    between 

two  shores  of  light, 
Seemed  like  a  century's  pain  compressed   and  coiled 

up  into  a  night. 

I  thought,  while  I  stayed  on  that  battle  field,  of  the 

waste  around  me  there, 
And  bared  my  bleeding  heart,  that  God    might    read 

its  muttered  prayer ; 
A  prayer  that  asked    for  a  fiery  rod  of  lightnings  in 

His  hand, 
To  strike  the  sod  where    the    traitor    trod,  and    burn 

his  track  from  the  land ; 
A  prayer  that  sued  for  the  drops  of  rain  in  the  eyes 

of  the  coining  years, 
To  quench  the  sensuous  smile  of  earth  with  a  weight 

of  heaven's  pure  tears. 

Columbia  —  oh  !    my  country,    weep  !  —  weep  !  —  thou 

art  blind,  insane ! 
Thy  dear  eyes  stare,  and   thy  hollow  laugh   is  worse 

than  a  shriek  of  pain. 
Why  is  the  voice  of  thy  revelry  ringing  through  home 

and  hall, 
While    lustrous    drops    of   thy  precious  life    bleed    on 

thy  joys'  black  pall  ? 

18 


Night  after  the  Battle. 


Why  does  thy  forehead  hide  its  woe  under  a  weight 
of  gems, 

While  ever}'  hour  treads  down  the  worth  of  a  thou- 
sand diadems  ? 

Where  are  the  sacred,  beautiful  words  —  sister,  moth- 
er, and  wife  ? 

And  the  prayer  of  faith,  valor's  white  shield,  that 
strengthens  the  arm  in  strife  ? 

Seek  for  the  words  where  a  painted  cheek  blossoms 
out  in  the  bowers, 

Where  the  atmosphere  of  a  putrid  mirth  withers  all 
purer  flowers  ; 

Seek  for  the  prayer  where  a  mimic  phrase  copies  a 
sentiment, 

And  goes  up  from  a  lip  mechanically  moved  to  an 
ear  unheeding  bent. 

Columbia,  weep  for  the  heartlessness,  the  selfishness, 
the  pride, 

That  bridges  thy  billow}'  wave  of  life,  and  scatters 
its  surges  wide ! 

Thy  triumph  waits  on  the  farther  shore ;  but,  oh ! 
till  thy  conquest  comes, 

Mix  not  the  tremble  of  ivory  keys  with  the  passion- 
ate throb  of  drums  ! 


Night  after  the  Battfe. 

Let    every   pulse    in   the    nation's    heart  beat   to    the 

same  deep  strain  — 
War,  strong  war,  while   it  must  be  war  —  peace  that 

we  can  retain  ; 
Let  us  have    no    soulless   pageantry,   let  us    have   no 

mimic  strife, 
We   do  not  fence  for  a  jeweled  glove  —  we  fight  for 

a  nation's  life. 


20 


PRESIDENT  LINCOLN'S  FUNERAL. 


Toll !     Toll ! 

Toll !  Toll ! 
All  rivers  seaward  wend. 

Toll !     Toll ! 

Toll !  Toll ! 
Weep  for  the  nation's  friend. 

Every  home  and  hall  was  shrouded, 

Every  thoroughfare  was  still ; 
Every  brow  was    darkly  clouded, 

Every  heart  was  faint  and  chill. 
Oh !  the  inky  drop  of  poison 

In  our  bitter  draught  of  grief! 
Oh !  the  sorrow  of  a  nation 

Mourning  for  its  murdered  chief! 


Toll !     Toll ! 
Toll !     Toll ! 
Bound  is  the  reaper's  sheaf - 


21 


President  Lincoln" s  Funeral. 

Toll !     Toll ! 

Toll !     Toll !  „ 

All  mortal  life  is  brief. 

Toll !     Toll ! 

Toll !     Toll ! 
Weep  for  the  nation's  chief! 

Bands  of  mourning  draped  the  homestead, 

And  the  sacred  house  of  prayer ; 
Mourning  folds  lay  black  and  heavy 

On  true  bosoms  everywhere  : 
Yet  there  were  no  tear-drops  streaming 

From  the  deep  and  solemn  eye 
Of  the  hour  that  mutely  waited 

Till  the  funeral  train  went  by. 
Oh !  there  is  a  woe  that  crushes 

All  expression  with  its  weight ! 
There  is  pain  that  numbs  and  hushes 

Feeling's  sense,  it  is  so  great. 

Strongest  arms  were  closely  folded, 
Most  impassioned  lips  at  rest ; 

Scarcely  seemed  a  heaving  motion 
In  the  nation's  wounded  breast ; 

Tears  were  frozen  in  their  sources, 
Blushes  burned  themselves  away  : 

22 


President  Lincoln's  Funeral. 


Language  bled  through  broken  heart-threads, 

Lips  had  nothing  left  to  say. 
Yet  there  was  a  marble  sorrow 

In  each  still  face,  chiseled  deep; 
Something  more  than  words  could  utter, 

Something  more  than  tears  could  weep. 

Selfishly  the  nation  mourned  him, 

Mourned  its  chieftain  and  its  friend ; 
Eye  no  traitor  mist  could  darken, 

Arm  no  traitor  power  could  bend; 
Heart  that  gathered  the  true  pulses 

Of  the  land's  indignant  veins, 
And,  with  their  tempestuous  spurning, 

Broke  the  slave's  tear-rusted  chains  : 
Heart  that  tied  its  iron  fibers 

Round  the  Union's  starry  band ; 
Martyr's  heart,  that  upward  beating, 

Broke  on  hate's  assassin  hand ! 
Oh !  the  land  he  loved  will  miss  him, 

Miss  hint  in  its  hour  of  need! 
Mourns  the  nation  for  the  nation 

Till  its  tear-drops  inward  bleed. 
There  is  one  whose  life  will  mourn  him, 

With  a  deep,  unselfish  woe ; 
One  who  owned  him  chief  and  master 

Ere  the  nation  named  him  so. 

23 


President  Lincoln's  Funeral, 


That  the  land  he  loved  will  miss  him, 

Does  she  either  think  or  care? 
No !  the  chieftain's  heart  is  shrouded, 

And  her  woman's  world  was  there  : 
No !  the  nation  was  her  rival ; 

Let  its  glory  shine  or  dim, 
He  hath  perished  on  its  altar  — 

What  were  many  such  to  him? 

Toll !     Toll ! 

Toll !     Toll ! 

Never  again  —  no  more  — 
Comes  back  to  earth  the  life  that  goes 
Hence  to  the  Eden  shore ! 

Let  him  rest !  —  it  is  not  often 

That  his  soul  hath  known  repose ; 
Let  him  rest!  —  they  rest  but  seldom 

Whose  successes  challenge  foes. 
He  was  weary  —  worn  with  watching  ; 

His  life-crown  of  power  hath  pressed 
Oft  on  temples  sadly  aching  — 

He  was  weary,  let  him  rest. 
Toll,  bells  at  the  Capital ! 

Bells  of  the  land,  toll ! 
Sob  out  your  grief  with  brazen  lungs  — 
Toll!    toll!    toll! 

24 


THE    STOLEN    SUNBEAM. 


There 's  a  light  that  burns  with  a  quenchless  glow, 

In  the  wide,  deep  caverns  of  earth  below ; 

Like  the  fire  that  lives  on  the  Parsee's  shrine, 

Is  the  amber  torch  of  the  lighted  mine. 

Burning  forever,  steadily  bright; 

Flickering  never,  a  changeless  light ; 

Proud  and  passionless,  still  and  fair; 

Burning  forever  without  a  glare; 

Burning  forever,  so  still  and  deep, 

A  quenchless  flame  in  a  dreamless  sleep ; 

And  Time's  broad  ocean  may  roll  its  waves 

While  space  hath  room  for  the  centuries'  graves  ; 

It  hath  not  billows  to  dim  the  shine 

Of  the  wizard  fagot  that  lights  the  mine. 

Beware  !  beware  !  of  a  starless  beam  ! 

The  nightmare  spell  of  a  miser's  dream. 

Emotionless  ever,  its  subtle  art 

Tugs  at  the  strings  of  the  world's  strong  heart. 

c  25 


oar          . 


The  Stolen  Sunbeam. 


The  stars  of  the  earth  at  its  bidding  stoop  ; 
Awed  by  its  menace,  life-roses  droop ; 
And  the  fairest  blossoms  that  earth  can  twine 
Fade  near  the  taper  that  lights  the  mine. 

The  Fallen  looked  on  the  world  and  sneered : 
"  I  guess,"  he  muttered,  "  why  God  is  feared ; 
"  For  eyes  of  mortals  are  fain  to  shun 
"  The  midnight  heaven,  that  hath  no  sun. 
"  I  will  stand  on  the  height  of  the  hills  and  wait 
"  Where  the  day  goes  out  at  the  western  gate, 
"And  reaching  up  to  its  crown  will  tear 
"  From  its  plumes  of  glory  the  brightest  there ; 
"With  the  stolen  ray  I  will  light  the  sod, 
"  And  turn  the  eyes  of  the  world  from  God." 

He  stood  on  the  height  when  the  sun  went  down 
He  tore  one  plume  from  the  day's  bright  crown ; 
The  proud  orb  stooped  till  he  touched  its  brow, 
And  the  marks  of  that  touch  are  on  it  now, 
And  the  flush  of  its  anger  forever  more 
Burns  red  when  it  passes  the  western  door ! 
The  broken  feather  above  him  whirled, 
In  flames  of  torture  around  him  curled, 
And  he  dashed  it  down  from  the  snowy  height 
In  broken  masses  of  quivering  light. 

26 


The  Stolen  Sunbeam. 


Ah !  more  than  terrible  was  the  shock 
Where  the  burning  splinters  struck  wave  and  rock  ; 
The  green  earth  shuddered,  and  shrank,  and  paled, 
The  wave  sprang  up  and  the  mountain  quailed. 
Look  on  the  hills  —  let  the  scars  they  bear 
Measure  the  pain  of  that  hour's  despair. 

The  Fallen  watched  while  the  whirlwind  fanned 
The  pulsing  splinters  that  ploughed  the  sand  ; 
Sullen  he  watched,  while  the  hissing  waves 
Bore  them  away  to  the  ocean  caves ; 
Sullen  he  watched  while  the  shining  rills 
Throbbed  through  the  hearts  of  the  rocky  hills  ; 
Loudly  he  laughed  :    "  Is  the  world  not  mine  ? 

"  Proudly  the  links  of  its  chain  shall  shine ; 

"  Lighted  with  gems  shall  its  dungeons  be ; 

"  But  the  pride  of  its  beauty  shall  kneel  to  me ! " 
That  splintered  light  in  the  earth  grew  cold, 
And  the  diction  of  mortals  hath  called  it  "GOLD." 


MOONRISE   ON  THE  WASATCH.* 


The  stars  seemed  far,  yet  darkness  was  not  deep  ; 
Like  baby-eyes,  the  rays  yet  strove  with  sleep ; 
The  giant  hills  stood  in  the  distance  proud  — 
On  each  white  brow  a  dusky  fold  of  cloud ; 
Some  coldly  gray,  some  of  an  amber  hue, 
Some  with  dark  purple  fading  into  blue ; 
And  one  that  blushed  with  a  faint  crimson  jet  — 
A  sunset  memory,  tinged  with  cloud-regret. 
Close  to  my  feet  the  soft  leaf  shadows  stirred  ; 
I  listened  vainly,  for  they  moved  unheard  — 
Trembled  unconsciously ;  the  languid  air 
Crept  to  the  rose's  lip,  and  perished  there. 
It  was  an  hour  of  such  repose  as  steals 
Into  the  heart  when  it  most  deeply  feels ; 
When  feeling  covers  every  shred  of  speech 
With  one  emotion  language  cannot  reach. 


*The  "Wasatch"  is  a  rugged  range  of  mountains  forming  the  eastern 
boundary  of  Great  Salt  Lake  Valley. 

28 


Moonrise  on  the  Wasatch. 


And  Nature  held  her  breath  and  waited  there, 
An  awed  enthusiast  at  the  shrine  of  prayer ; 
Like  a  pale  devotee,  whose  reverent  lips 
Stifle  the  breath  that  burns  her  finger-tips. 

The  crimson-tinted  cloud  paled,  with  a  start, 

As  though  new  hope  chased  memory  from  its  heart  ; 

A  gleam  of  whiteness  stirred  the  vapors  pale, 

As  beauty's  finger  moves  a  bridal  veil ; 

A  fleecy  mass,  wide  fringed  with  silver  light, 

Drooped  on  the  summit  of  the  proudest  height ; 

Then,  floating  northward,  swept  in  folds  of  grace 

From  the  white  beauty  of  the  moon's  meek  face. 

How  still !    how  pure !    that  chastened  luster  bowed 

Its  glance  of  radiance  from  its  veil  of  cloud ! 

How  meek  the  loveliness,  how  kind  the  power, 

Whose  arm  of  purity  embraced  the  hour ! 

How  beautiful  the  misty  robe  that  trailed 

O'er  bloom  that  brightened,  over  stars  that  paled — 

Though  its  white  fold  caught  in  a  dusky  cave, 

Or  swept  its  fingers  o'er  a  gleaming  wave, 

Piled  on  the  sward  a  moss  of  woven  gems, 

Or  dragged  in  tatters  through  the  forest  stems ! 

A  wave  of  beauty,  only  too  complete, 

Surged  o'er  my  head  and  widened  at  my  feet ; 

c*  29 


Moonrise  on  the  Wasatch. 


The  skies  seemed  bowing  with  their  wealth  of  light, 
Yet   earth   sprang   heavenward,  'twas    so  more  than 

bright : 

My  heart  found  no  expression  —  sought  for  none ; 
Why  analyze  the  bliss  it  fed  upon  ? 
'All  its  sensations  blended  into  one  — 
Solemn,  yet  shadowless  —  most  glad,  yet  deep  ; 
I  could  not  smile,  yet  had  no  wish  to  weep. 
My  restless  thoughts  seemed  into  one  compressed, 
Yet  in  that  one  all  others  were  expressed ; 
The  eloquence  of  all  things  seemed  possessed, 
Yet  no  expression  narrowed  to  my  breast ; 
My  soul  seemed  to  expand,  my  heart  to  melt, 
Blending  with  all  that  could  be  reached  or  felt ; 
I  had  no  wish  unsatisfied,  because 
My  mind's  volition  felt  superior  laws. 
It  seemed  a  ripple  moved  upon  a  tide, 
Whose  heaving  billow  bade  me  onward  glide ; 
A  breath  borne  upward  by  a  tempest  weight  — 
A  trifling  circumstance  controlled  by  fate ; 
Something  of  little  worth  when  moved  apart  — 
One  trembling  fiber  in  Creation's  heart. 


CALIFORNIA. 


Cheer  for  the  queen  of  the  western  wave !  — 

California ! 

Where  the  sunbeams  walk  on  a  golden  pave, 
And  the  moonlight  hides  in  a  silver  cave  — 

California  \ 

Where  the  day  that  comes  to  this  land  of  ours 
Finds  the  brightest  gems  and  the  rarest  flowers  ; 
Where  the  lingering  day,  when  it  must  depart, 
Leaves  the  last  red  pulse  of  a  broken  heart  — 

California ! 

Cheer  for  the  Italy  of  the  West !  — 

California ! 

With  a  wide,  warm  heart  in  a  jeweled  vest, 
And  a  regal  brow  by  a  rose  crown  pressed  — 

California ! 

From  the  burning  gold  of  her  shining  sand 
Is  the  scepter  forged  for  the  nation's  hand, 

31 


California. 


And  the  sword  that  cancels  a  traitor's  guilt 
Hath  her  diamond  stars  in  its  flashing  hilt- 
California ! 

Cheer  for  the  coast  where  the  billows  sing ! 

California ! 

The  proudest  plume  of  an  eagle  wing ; 
The  brightest  ray  of  a  starry  ring  — 

California ! 

Pouring  the  wealth  of  her  yellow  veins, 
And  her  ruby  gems,  on  the  battle  plains  — 
True,  to  the  core  of  her  deep,  warm  breast 
All  hail !    thou  beautiful  queen  of  the  West  - 

California ! 


WILD-WOOD    BLOSSOMS. 


Beautiful  buds  from  the  wild-wood  brought ; 

Leaves  that  the  sun  would  fade ; 
Born  where  the  zephyrs,  with  fragrance  fraught, 

Linger  amid  the  shade ; 
Where  the  day  looks  forth  with  a  reverent  eye, 

The  wave  hath  a  murmur  low, 
And  the  soft  winds  steal,  with  a  balmy  sigh, 

Through  the  blossoms  of  pink  and  snow. 

Beautiful  buds  from  the  wild-wood  brought ; 

Lilies  so  slight  and  pale, 
Like  breathing  plants  that  the  world  hath  taught 

Meekness  in  sorrow's  gale ; 
Delicate  mosses,  and  long,  clinging  sprays 

Of  beautiful,  flowering  vine ; 
Dew  blossoms,  that  close  to  the  streamlet  stays, 

With  the  sweet,  blue  columbine. 


33 


Wild-  \Vood  Blossoms. 


Beautiful  buds  from  the  wild-wood  stole  — 

Many  a  human  flower, 
Whose  gentle  spirit  and  wealth  of  soul 

Furnished  its  earthly  dower, 

Hath  learned,  when  the  weight  of  the  proud  world's 
scorn 

Hath  trampled  it  down  to  fade, 
That  sensitive  hearts  and  delicate  plants 

Should  blossom  amid  the  shade. 


34 


THE    WOUNDED    BIRD. 


Never  again  in  the  wild-wood  bowers 

Will  thy  trembling  notes  be  heard; 
Never  again  will  the  branches  sway 

Under  thee,  sweet  little  bird! 
The  breath  of  the  spring  upheld  thy  wing, 

And  the  summer  drank  thy  strain; 
But  the  plumes  that  fluttered  the  blossoms  then 

Never  will  perch  again. 

Never  again  !  — -  in  the  dear,  old  woods 

The  flowers  will  bloom  and  die, 
And  many  a  shining  pinion  flit 

Over  the  sun-bathed  sky; 
And  many  a  note  on  the  soft  winds  float, 

As  pure  in  its  melody 
As  the  frozen  tones  in  thy  fluttering  heart — 

But  never  again  for  thee ! 


35 


The  Wounded  Bird. 


Never  again  !  —  there  are  crimson  drops 

Quivering  on  thy  breast ; 
Thy  pulses  curdle  around  the  shaft 

Under  thy  soft  wing  pressed. 
Ah  !  it  is  well,  thou  has  breathed  thy  song — 

If  its  low,  wild  gush  hath  stirred 
One  heart's  deep  waves,  thou  hast  done  thy  part, 

Beautiful,  wounded  bird ! 


ASHES    TO    ASHES. 


"  Master,  —  " 

"  Do  not  call  me  master ; 

For,  I  tell  thee,  I  am  none ; 
Dark-browed  freeman,  there  's  no  master 
In  this  land  of  ours,  but  One." 

"Friend,  —  " 

"Still  better  —  call  me  brother! 
We  are  dying,  side  by  side; 
For  one  cause,  beneath  one  banner, 

Mingling  here  life's  ebbing  tide. 

Say  it  after  me  —  '  Our  Father!'  — 

Now,  then,  are  we  not  allied  ? " 

"  Brother,  —  " 

"  Aye  !  thou  needst  not  falter ; 

Speak  it  boldly  !  —  say  it  loud  !  — 
Look !   the  Land's  torn  breast  is  bleeding, 

D  37 


Ashes  to  Ashes. 

But  its  brow  is  calm  and  proud  ; 
Yonder,  see,  the  stars  are  shining, 

Though  the  blossoms  here  are  bowed. 
And  I  tell  thee,  dark-browed  brother, 

That  our  Land  is  better  now 
Than  when  roses,  on  its  bosom, 

Blushed  beneath  a  frowning  brow. 
Call  me  brother  !  —  call  me  brother  ! 

Reach  thy  true  hand  nearer  mine  — 
It  is  cold,  but  mine  is  colder  ; 

Let  them  freeze,  and,  freezing,  twine  ! " 

Brother,  —  " 
"Yes,  I  listen,  brother." 

—  "  I  have  thought,  how  can  this  be  ? 


For  the  Lord,  who  gave  us  stations, 
Knows  I  do  not  equal  thee  ! " 

"  Needs  it  that  we  should  be  equal  ? 

Souls  have  stature  as  He  wills. 
Yonder,  the  night's  silvery  pulses 

Roll  in  wide  and  narrow  rills, 
Yet  no  one  hath  right  to  trample 

On  the  space  another  fills." 


Ashes  to  Ashes. 

"  Brother,  —  " 

"  Yes,  I  listen,  brother." 

"Say  '  Our  father '  once  again  ; 

For  a  strange,  new  light  seems  dawning 

On  the  stupor  of  my  brain ; 
And  my  soul  seems  reaching  upward, 

With  a  motion  new  and  bold. 
Brother,  —  Oh  !  his  hand  hath  frozen  ! 

And  my  own  is  freezing  cold." 

Dark  and  fair,  they  slumbered  there  ; 
New  England  boy,  whose  golden  hair 

Trailed  on  a  forehead  cold, 
That  glimmered  through  gold  meshes,  wet 
With  red  life-jewels  framed  in  jet ; 
And  many  a  shaggy  Afric  curl 
Touched  red  life-jewels  framed  in  pearl ; 
And  the  same  vail  of  moonlight  glow 
Swept  sable  cheek  and  throat  of  snow, 

With  its  pale,  silver  fold. 
Dark  and  fair,  they  slumbered  there  — 
Young  face  serene  and  pure  as  prayer, 

Where  death  could  not  eclipse 
The  beauty  that  more  radiant  beamed 
Because  its  white  enchantment  seemed 


39 


Ashes  to  Ashes. 


To  hold  the  smile  that  went  and  came 
In  life,  a  bright  but  fitful  flame, 

Frozen  upon  its  lips ; 
And  a  dark,  dull,  time-withered  face, 
Where  feeling  never  left  a  trace, 
Nor  beauty  shaped  a  curve  — 
A  narrow  and  unlovely  brow, 
Whose  mold  proclaimed  it  formed  to  bow ; 

A  creature  fit  to  serve. 
And  there  were  fingers,  white  as  pearls, 
And  slight  and  dainty  as  a  girl's, 
That  with  a  rigid  clasp  caressed 
A  sable  hand,  that  coldly  pressed 
And  held  them  to  a  frozen  breast. 

Two  mortal  brothers,  hand  in  hand, 
Slept  on  the  bosom  of  the  Land ; 
And  Heaven's  meek  brow  seemed  leaning  down 
To  fasten  in  its  starry  crown 
The  soul-gems  it  had  won 
Since  the  pale  hour  of  twilight  passed 
The  portal  of  existence  last, 
To  curtain  out  the  sun. 
And,  maybe,  in  that  crown  they  shine 
Two  stars,  whose  rays  would  dare  to  twine ; 
It  may  be  that  the  curse 


40 


Ashes  to  Ashes. 


Of  blackness  fades  from  off  the  soul 
That  reaches  its  eternal  goal 
Unstained  by  deeper  dyes  of  crime, 
Unsullied  by  the  feet  of  Time, 
That  trampled  on  a  dusky  breast 
And  slowly  crushed  it  to  its  rest. 
But  so,  or  not,  He  knoweth  best 
Who  rules  the  Universe. 


THE    PATRIOT    DEAD 


No  tears  for  them  !  —  they  never  knew 

The  shrinking,  coward  pain 
Of  hearts  that  know  a  fetter's  weight, 

And  beat  beneath  a  chain  ; 
They  hallowed  with  their  earliest  breath 

The  land  for  which  they  bled ; 
Chant  honor's  paean-note  to  Death 

Above  the  patriot  dead. 

No  tears  for  them  !  —  the  lofty-toned  ! 

The  beautiful  !   the  high  ! 
There  is  no  sorrow  in  the  voice 

That  summons  such  to  die. 
Oh  !    loop  our  country's  ensign  where 

Its  starry  folds  may  spread 
The  glory  that  they  died  to  guard, 

Above  the  patriot  dead. 


The  Patriot  Dead. 


No  tears  for  them  !  —  the  bright !  the  brave  ! 

Weep  for  the  coward  life, 
That  dares  not  go  where  honor  calls, 

And,  shrinking,  shuns  the  strife ; 
But  speak  of  them  with  reverent  eye, 

Awed  voice,  and  low-bowed  head, 
And  teach  your  babes  'twere  proud  to  die 

Like  them  —  the  patriot  dead. 


43 


THE    FLAG   AT    SUMPTER 


Yes,  they  have  raised  the  Flag  again  — 

Who  dares  to  strike  it  low  ? 
Its  light  burns  into  every  vein 

That  hath  one  pulse  to  glow  ; 
It  is  the  same  bright  Flag  that  rose 

Above  oppression's  frown, 
Our  Land's  first  challenge  to  its  foes  — 

Who  dares  to  strike  it  down  ? 

The  same  proud  Eagle  turns  his  gaze 

To  freedom's  rising  sun ; 
Those  sacred  stars  first  lit  their  blaze 

O'er  deathless  Washington  : 
That  Flag  !  —  it  is  our  honor's  vest  — 

It  is  our  glory's  crown, 
A  heart-thrill  in  the  Nation's  breast  — 

Who  dares  to  strike  it  down? 


44 


The  Flag  at  Sumpter. 


That  Flag  is  Union's  jeweled  belt, 

It  girds  Columbia  round  ; 
Each  motion  that  her  life  hath  felt, 

That  starry  sash  hath  bound. 
Our  wars  have  bathed  it  with  red  tears, 

Our  peace  will  fadeless  glow, 
The  pledge  of  past  to  future  years  — 

Who  dares  to  strike  it  low  ? 


45 


THE    MINES. 


Bring  the  Nation's  wealth  to  the  Nation's  need ! 
Let  the  golden  veins  of  the  mountains  bleed  ! 
Bid  the  pallid  pulses  of  silver  start 
From  the  sordid  depths  of  the  earth's  black  heart. 
There  are  burning  rubies  that  gem  the  sod ; 
There  are  trampled  pearls  where  the  battle  trod  ; 
There  are  brilliants  throbbing  with  glorious  life, 
Scattered  like  chaff  on  the  field  of  strife  ; 
Yet  the  passive  hand  of  the  Nation  sleeps 
Cold  on  the  key  of  the  treasure  heaps  ! 
And  Columbia's  need  is  in  whispers  told 
Where  her  rivers  dash  on  a  shore  of  gold  ; 
Where  her  regal  hills  in  their  pride  look  down 
On  the  golden  fringe  of  their  mantle  brown  ; 
Wliere  the  sunbeams  glitter  on  sand  as  bright, 
And  the  sod  is  spangled  with  silver  light. 
Is  the  warm,  true  life  of  the  Nation's  veins 
Less  than  the  dust  of  the  yellow  plains, 


46 


The  Mines. 


That  we  hear  the  cry  of  the  Treasury's  need 
Where  trampled  bosoms  exultant  bleed  ? 
Heart-eloquence,  are  thy  bright  lips  dumb  ? 
Soul-power,  is  thy  arm  of  puissance  numb  ? 
Open  the  vaults  where  the  gold  dust  shines  ! 
Give  us  the  key  of  the  silver  mines  ! 

Was  the  treasure  stored  by  the  Nation's  God, 

In  the  mountain  cave  and  the  valley  sod, 

To  purchase  a  circlet  of  diamonds  rare 

For  the  snowy  brow  of  a  millionaire  ? 

Was  it  hidden  away  in  the  mountain  ledge, 

Lapped  under  the  hem  of  the  streamlet's  edge, 

To  trail  brocade  through  a  festive  place, 

Or  cover  a  shoddy  breast  with  lace  ? 

Was  it  sifted  in  ashes  of  golden  light, 

O'er  blossoming  valley  and  rocky  height, 

To  wrap  pollution  in  tissues  fine, 

Or  sparkle  and  fade  in  the  blush  of  wine  ? 

Oh  !    is  it  not  rightly  the  Nation's  dower, 

A  treasure  kept  for  the  stormy  hour, 

To  help  our  hope  to  its  lofty  aim  — 

To  free  our  Land  from  the  blush  of  shame  — 

To  strengthen  the  power  of  the  crimson  wave 

That  cancels,  forever,  the  name  of  SLAVE  — 


47 


The  Mines. 

To  make  the  belt  of  the  Union  strong, 
To  uphold  the  right,  to  redress  the  wrong  ? 
Speak,  lips  that  boast  of  a  patriot  right ! 
Act,  arms  that  thrill  with  a  patriot  might ! 
Open  the  vaults  where  the  gold  dust  shines, 
Give  us  the  kev  of  the  silver  mines  ! 


Wealth,  wealth,  wherever  a  thought  can  go, 

From  Arizona  to  Idaho  ; 

Where  the  silver  feet  of  Nevada  light 

A  pathway  under  the  sod  ; 

Where  the  finger  white  of  the  Wasatch  height 

Points  to  the  throne  of  God  ; 

Where  the  young  Montana,  lifting  up 

The  wine  of  life  in  a  golden  cup, 

Pledges  the  queen  of  the  sunset  sea 

Who  crushed  the  grapes  for  the  revelry  ; 

Where  California,  the  Ocean  bride, 

Wears  crimson  roses  with  brilliants  tied  ; 

Where  the  wild  sage  stems  of  the  desert  die 

In  the  cold,  white  marshes  of  alkali, 

There  are  nerves  and  pulses  that  trembling  start 

To  quicken  the  throb  of  the  Nation's  heart. 

Oh  !   speak  to  them,  Eloquence  !  softly  speak 

Of  the  faded  lip  and  the  withered  cheek  ; 


48 


The  Mines. 


Of  the  patriot  bosoms  that  bleed  and  die 

For  a  cause  so  holy,  an  aim  so  high  ! 

Do  they  share  no  part  of  the  glorious  claim  ? 

Hath  their  life  no  thrill  for  Columbia's  fame  ? 

They  answer,  they  answer,  their  true  hands  reach 

A  better  language  than  empty  speech ! 

They  open  the  vaults  where  the  gold  dust  shines, 

They  give  us  the  key  of  the  silver  mines ! 


49 


AMPUTATED. 


Good  bye,  right  arm !     'T  is  hard  to  part 

With  one  as  true  and  tried  ; 
One  that  so  long  hath  served  my  heart, 

And  waited  at  my  side : 
Thy  work  is  done  —  thy  pain  is  o'er ; 

When  tear  drops  dim  mine  eye 
Thy  hand  will  dash  them  forth  no  more- 

Good  bye,  right  arm  —  good  bye ! 

Good  bye,  right  arm !     On  battle  field 

Thy  strength  hath  served  me  well, 
And  thou  hast  been  my  bosom's  shield 

Where  blows  like  rain  drops  fell ; 
But  never  more  amid  the  strife 

Thou  wilt  be  lifted  high  ; 
Thy  last  blow  saved  this  heart  its  life  — 

Good  bye,  right  arm  —  good  bye  ! 


Amputated. 


Good  bye,  right  arm !     No  more  thou  'It  start 

Eager  to  greet  my  friend ; 
But  this  poor  one  that's  near  my  heart 

No  colder  clasp  will  lend ; 
And  should  my  country  ever  need 

A  guard  so  maimed  as  I, 
It  would  be  just  as  proud  to  bleed  — 

Good  bye,  right  arm  —  good  bye  ! 

Good  bye,  right  arm !     I  should  not  grieve, 

For  thou  hast  done  thy  part; 
Yet  I  can  scarcely  bear  to  leave 

Thee,  senseless  as  thou  art : 
My  poor,  scarred  hand !     I  hold  thee  near 

To  lips  that  trembling  sigh, 
And  gem  thee  once  more  with  a  tear  — 

Good  bye,  right  arm  —  good  bye  ! 


ONLY    ONE. 


Only  one  !     Yet  one  may  be 

Sometimes  welcome,  where 
Valor  needs  to  strike  one  blow, 

Faith  to  breathe  one  prayer. 
Yet  it  is  not  much,  I  know, 

When  the  work  is  done  ; 
Standing  high  or  standing  low, 

'Twill  be  only  one. 

Only  one  !     When  some  must  die 

For  the  weal  of  all, 
Matters  it  where  life's  last  sigh 

Breaks  its  earthly  thrall  ? 
To  the  length  of  mortal  breath 

Though  a  life  be  spun, 
Freezing  on  the  lip  of  death, 

'Twill  be  only  one. 


52 


Only  One. 


Only  one  !     Yet  one  may  be 

Something  more  than  naught ; 
One  whose  life  intensity 

Breathed  in  deed  and  thought. 
Many  stars  flash  on  the  night  — 

When  their  race  is  run, 
Seek  the  morrow's  source  of  light, 

Twill  be  only  one. 


SORROW. 


There  are  many  tones  of  sorrow, 

But  its  saddest  voice  to  me 
Is  the  mocking  laugh  that  triumphs 

In  another's  agony  : 
I  could  weep  for  those  who  suffer, 

But  the  souls  that  woe  can  please  — 
Whose  joy  is  wrung  from  others'  pain  - 

I  pity,  pity  these. 

There  are  many  tones  of  sorrow 

Poured  upon  the  chords  of  life  — 
Murmurs  of  its  ceaseless  changing, 

Murmurs  of  its  restless  strife  ; 
But  to  live  till  pity's  pleading 

Changes  to  a  mocking  hiss, 
Till  feeling  withers  to  a  sneer, 

Oh  !    Father,  spare  me  this. 


54 


PASSAGE    OF    THE    RED    SEA 


The  Prophet  stood  beside  the  sea  ; 

Looked  calmly  to  the  sky  : 
"Our  God,  in  need  we  call  to  Thee, 
Make  Israel's  pathway  dry !  " 

He  smote  the  waters  with  his  hand  ; 
The  wraves  reeled  back  at  his  command, 
The  foam-wreaths  curled  from  the  wet  sand, 

Flung  back  on  either  side  ; 
The  surges  piled  a  mountain  height, 
Two  icy  glaciers,  still  and  white, 

Showed  Israel's  pathway  dried. 
The  pillow  of  the  wave,  left  bare, 
Disclosed  what  years  had  garnered  there, 
To  make  the  deep  sea-grottoes  fair  ; 

Bright  shells  and  shining  sand 
Lay  glittering  in  the  summer  ray, 
Whose  braided  glory  wreathed  the  day, 
And  lit  the  pulseless  tide  that  lay 

Piled  backward  from  the  strand. 

55 


Passage  of  the  Red  Sea. 


That  startled  people  lifted  one 

Quick,  wondering  glance  toward  the  sun, 

Then  looked  upon  the  sea  ; 
They  only  felt  that  God  had  spoken  — 
The  tide  of  vassalage  was  broken, 

And  Israel  was  free  ! 

The  Prophet  whispers,  "  Come  ! "  —  they  go  — 

Men  with  time-whitened  hair, 
Matrons,  bright  youths,  and  timid  girls, 

And  little  children  fair  — 
They  hasten  through  that  parted  tide, 

Haste  to  the  farther  shore, 
As  though  they  knew  the  chilled  depth  sighed, 

Impatiently,  to  roar. 

And  Pharaoh,  too,  has  dared  to  come 

Through  those  plowed  waters,  chained  and  dumb- 

That  ocean  thoroughfare  ; 
What  though  the  clouds  above  his  head 

Breathed  thunder-mutterings  low  ; 
What  though  the  lightning,  fiery  red, 
Flashed  forth  at  times,  as  though  it  said, 

"  Man,  darest  thou  to  go  ? " 
What  though  he  felt  the  firm  earth  shake, 
And  saw  the  hills  with  terror  quake  — 

He  dares  to  follow  there  ! 

56 


Passage  of  the  Red  Sea. 


The  steed  leaps  shuddering  on  the  path, 
Urged  by  his  rider's  spur  of  wrath  ; 
Proud  plumes  are  tossed  where  frozen  spray 
Hangs  white  and  feathery  o'er  their  way; 

Those  rippPd  waters  lean ! 
But  Pharoah's  hand  is  on  his  sword, 
His  haughty  lip  its  breath  has  poured, 

"  There  's  room  to  pass  between  !  " 
Haste,  Israel,  haste  !  —  they  reach  the  strand, 
The  Prophet  turns  and  waves  his  hand  — 

A  quick-drawn,  shuddering  breath  — 
A  deafening  sound,  as  though  the  sky 
Had  flung  its  thunders  from  on  high 

In  one  wild  shriek  of  death ! 
And  then  the  sea  lay  calm  and  still, 
As  though  its  heart  recalled  no  thrill 

Of  the  wild  tumult  passed ; 
And  the  low  murmurs  of  the  wave 
Were  sweet  as  though  it  held  no  grave 

Within  its  bosom  fast. 
There  is  a  solemn  hush  of  prayer 

Wliere  Israel  bows  the  knee; 
The  glance  of  God  beholds  them  there, 

The  ransomed  and  the  free ; 
Then  from  a  people's  heart  upsprings 
The  hymn  of  praise  that  Miriam  sings  : 


57 


Passage  of  the  Red  Sea. 

"  Tyrant  and  slave, 

Under  the  wave 
Rest  on  the  same  cold  pillow ; 

The  Lord  looked  down, 

His  smile  and  frown 
Parted  and  closed  the  billow ; 
He  pushed  the  wave  from  His  people's  path, 
And  dashed  it  back  on  their  foe  v  in  wrath. 

Hail !  mighty  One,  and  just ! 

Hail,  Israel's  trust ! 
Our  God! 

"  The  skeptic  proud 

Hath  found  a  shroud, 
Wove  of  the  foaming  surges  ; 

His  people  sleep 

In  the  wild  deep, 
Lulled  by  its  tempest-dirges ; 
And  Israel's  sandal  hath  brought  no  stain 
From  the  trodden  depth  of  the  parted  main. 

Hail !  mighty  One,  and  just ! 

Hail,  Israel's  trust ! 
Our  God  !  " 


LACHAON'S    LAMENT. 


The   white   chieftain    came   when    my  warriors   were 
sleeping  — 

The  fume  of  the  fire-water  lulled  them  to  rest ; 
The  white  chieftain  went,  but  he  bore  in  his  keeping 

The  wild  forest  blossom  I  wore  on  my  breast. 
The  voice  of  my  people  is  weary  with  calling ; 

My  braves  trod  the  blossoms  of  forest  and  plain  \ 
But  the  last  flower  is  pale,  and  the  sear  leaf  is  fall- 
ing, 

Yet  the  child  of  Lachaon,  she  comes  not  again. 

The  day-god  will  rise  from  his  couch  on  the  morrow, 
The  eagle  will  soar  to  his  nest  on  the  height; 

But,  when  shall  I  rise  from  the  pillow  of  sorrow  — 
And  when  will  the  Lodge  of  Lachaon  be  bright  ? 

The  sons  that  went  forth  with  my  people  to  battle  — 
My  lip  quivered  not  when  I  knew  they  were  slain? 


59 


Lachaorfs  Lament. 

They  bared  their  bold  hearts  to  the  death-thunder's 

rattle  — 

But   the   wild   blossom   lives,    and    she   comes    not 
again ! 

I   had  laid  her  bright  head  where  the  dark  willows, 

leaning 

Above  the  still  waters,  a  dim  shadow  throw ; 
And  told  them  of  grief —  that  I  knew  not  its  meaning, 

For  the  sun-spirits  smile  when  the  beautiful  go. 
I  'd   know,  when   the   snow-flakes  were   piled  on  her 

pillow, 
That   the   stilled   heart  beneath  was  as  void  of  a 

stain  j 
There  are  shadows  of  life  that  could  darken  death's 

billow  — 
And  I  mourn  that  she  lives,  and  comes  not  again. 


60 


PERSEVERANCE. 


Rouse  thee,  while  thou  'rt  idly  dreaming, 

Precious  hours  are  hastening  by ; 
And  each  moment,  as  it  fleeth, 

Whispers,  "  Mortal,  thou  must  die ! 
While  thine  arm  retains  its  vigor, 

While  thy  cheek  is  flushed  with  health, 
Thou  must  strive,  if  thou  wouldst  ever 

Claim  thy  part  of  fame  or  wealth." 

Say,  what  hast  thou  done  worth  naming? 

Does  the  world  owe  aught  to  thee? 
Or,  art  thou  a  worthless  atom 

Whirled  upon  life's  stormy  sea? 
Brightest  gems  of  thought  lie  sleeping, 

Resting  dormant  in  thine  heart; 
Call  them  forth  !  —  a  world  will  laud  thee 

Bid  thy  lethargy  depart. 


61 


Perseverance. 


Every  hour  and  every  moment 

Brings  its  work  for  thee  to  do ; 
Strain  each  nerve  to  its  full  tension, 

Thou  may'st  nobly  struggle  through. 
Canst  thou  claim  a  hero's  laurel 

If  thou  shrinkest  from  the  fight  ? 
With  the  shield  of  truth  before  thee, 

Up,  and  onward,  for  the  right ! 

Every  conquest  that  thou  gainest, 

Every  prize  that  thou  canst  claim, 
All  the  good  that  thou  attainest, 

Addeth  luster  to  thy  name. 
Onward  !  for  thou  hast  the  power  ; 

Onward  !  hast  thou  not  the  will  ? 
Would'st  thou  claim  a  prize  worth  winning, 

Thou  must  struggle  onward  still. 


62 


ALLIE'S    PRAYER. 


We  listened  —  't  was  a  little  foot, 

Placed  lightly  on  the  stairs  ; 
"What  is  it,  darling?"  —  "I  forgot  — 

Forgot  to  say  my  prayers." 
The  mother  took  the  little  hand, 

And  kissed  the  meek,  low  brow, 
And  watched  the  tiny,  white-robed  form, 

Close  down  beside  her  bow. 
Ah  !  pride-chilled  hearts  were  beating  near, 

World-darkened  eyes  were  there; 
But  every  head  was  bowed  to  hear 

Sweet  Allie's  baby  prayer. 

And  I  have  knelt  where  holy  words 

By  earnest  lips  were  spoke  ; 
Have  felt  the  burning  gush  of  thought^ 

Their  eloquence  awoke  ; 


63 


Allie's  Prayer. 


Have  listened  when  the  pleader's  voice 

Sank  quivering  to  a  sigh, 
And  I  have  bowed  my  head  and  thought 

'T  were  beautiful  to  die ; 
But  never  have  I  seen  the  awe 

Whose  robes  were  folded  there  — 
Whose  stainless  fingers  wove  the  threads 

Of  Allie's  baby  prayer. 

It  went  away  —  that  little  foot  — 

As  lightly  as  it  came ; 
The  sweet  lips  spoke  a  low  "Good  night," 

And  syllabled  a  name, 
And  then  a  glimpse  of  sunny  hair 

Flashed  through  the  open  door ; 
We  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  white  robe 

The  angel  pleader  wore. 
Then  eye  met  eye,  and  souls  bowed  down 

In  deep  contrition  there ; 
Stern  hearts  were  melted  by  the  breath 

Of  Allie's  baby  prayer. 


64 


WILD    WINTER    WINDS 


Wild  winter  winds,  go,  rave,  if  ye  please, 

O'er  the  snow  covered  earth,  and  the  ice-mantled  trees-; 

Shout  in  the  forest  and  scream  on  the  lea, 

Touch  the  cold  waves  of  the  boisterous  sea; 

But,  spare  the  chilled  heart  and  the  shuddering  form 

Of  the  poor  little  child  that  is  forth  in  the  storm ! 

Wild  winter  winds,  ye  are  welcome  to  rest 
Where  the  turf  on  the  heart  of  the  sleeper  is  press'd ; 
Your  hands  may  be  cold  as  the  lips  of  despair, 
Still  they  wake  not  a  pang  for  the  slumberer  there; 
But,  spare,  kindly  spare,  the  poor  tenants  of  earth, 
Where  the  embers  are  fading  on  poverty's  hearth! 

Wild  winter  winds,  go,  dance  on  the  plain ! 
Whirl  the  white  snow  'gainst  the  echoing  pane  ; 
Whistle  and  shout  in  the  dark  mountain  pass, 
Sigh  through  the  blades  of  the  tall,  withered  grass ; 
But,  touch  not  in  anger,  speak  not  in  wrath, 
To  the  wandering  foot  in  the  snow-covered  path ! 

F*  65 


THE    WRECKED. 


The  sun  went  down  as  gorgeously, 

Wrapped  in  his  crimson  vest, 
As  though  the  lamps  of  night  were  placed 

As  watchers  o'er  his  rest ; 
But  with  the  shades  of  midnight  came 

The  storm-king's  clarion  blast, 
And  tempests  gathered  at  his  call, 

And  whirlwinds  hurried  past. 
There  was  a  sound  of  rushing  winds, 

A  sound  of  hastening  waves  — 
Strong  waters  stretched  their  arms  to  snatch 

Bright  spoils  from  ocean's  caves  ; 
Then  came  the  crash  !  —  the  long,  wild  shriek  !  - 
The  dash  of  waves  on  the  white  cheek  — 
The  aimless  clutch  —  the  smothered  prayer  !  — 
And  wild  winds  sung  a  requiem  there. 

The  morning  woke,  serene  and  bright ; 
The  sunlight  on  the  deep 

66 


The   Wrecked. 


Dwelt,  like  a  smile  upon  the  lip 

Of  innocence  asleep; 
The  light  winged  zephyrs  gently  swept 

Sweet  breathings  o'er  the  sea 
So  lately  parted  by  the  strong 

Wild  plunge  of  agony ; 
But  the  lone  sea  bird  flapped  his  wings 

Above  the  laughing  wave, 
And  screamed  forth  tales  of  tempest  doom 

Death,  and  an  ocean  grave  ; 
Of  trembling  hands,  outstretched  to  hold 
The  shuddering  heart  from  waters  cold  — 
The  dizzy  brain  and  shivering  breath, 
When  frenzied  horror  strove  with  death. 


But  all  are  sleeping  calmly  now  — 

The  coward  and  the  brave, 
The  earth-stained  and  the  beautiful, 

All  shrouded'  by  the  wave. 
What  forms  of  breathing  loveliness, 

What  hearts  of  throbbing  worth 
Were  laid  in  those  cold  depths,  to  leave 

Grief-darkened  homes  for  earth. 
Ah,  me !  —  but  wherefore  do  we  twine 

Soul  fibers  round  the  dead  — 


67 


The  Wrecked. 


Why  hoard  the  casket,  when  we  know 

The  precious  jewel  fled? 
Oh !  why  o'er  broken  life-threads  weep  ? 
Save  tears  —  hot  tears  —  for  those  who  steep 
Their  souls  in  crime's  waves,  dark  and  red; 
These  are  the  lost,  the  wrecked,  the  dead  ! 


68 


FAITH. 


An  angel  came  from  her  far,  bright  home, 

Wrapped  in  the  robes  that  moonbeams  wear ; 
Her  hand  was  white  as  the  lily  leaves, 

The  light  of  her  eye  was  the  soul  of  prayer  : 
She  ever  smiled,  but  her  sweet  lips  wore 

A  strange  expression  that  was  not  mirth ; 
A  pleading  beauty  that  seemed  to  draw 

The  gazer's  heart  from  the  thoughts  of  earth. 
And  much  they  wondered,  who  saw  her  pass, 

That  her  shining  sandal  never  bore 
A  stain  from  the  sod  it  lightly  trod  — 

That  dust  clung  not  to  the  robe  she  wore. 

'T  was  strange !  —  she  flashed  like  a  gleam  of  light 
Through  the  drear  abode  of  shame  and  woe, 

To  lay  her  hand  on  the  outcast's  brow, 
And  breathe  in  his  ear  a  whisper  low. 


69 


Faith. 

And  lines  of  pain  from  his  face  would  fade ; 

His  eyes  would  fill  with  an  eager  thought; 
And  his  paling  lips  would  part,  to  breathe 

Some  low  child-prayer  that  his  mother  taught. 

And  then,  away  to  the  cheerless  home 

Where  age  and  indigence  toiled  for  bread, 
Where  the  widow's  eyes  looked  wildly  down 

On  the  dear,  dear  ones !  that  must  be  fed  ; 
And,  oh !  if  the  niggard  wage  should  fail ! 
"  What  shall  I  do,  if  they  pay  me  not  ? "  — 
The  angel  visitor  calmly  smiled, 

And,  softly  whispering,  told  her  WHAT  ! 
Her  pale  cheek  flushed  with  a  sudden  start, 

Though  the  tear-drops  gleamed  there  all  the  while ; 
The  angel  passed,  but  the  widow's  heart 

Mirrored  forever  her  holy  smile. 

And  still  the  garments  around  her  flung 

Were  stainless  from  the  touch  of  clay ; 
And  still  the  smile  that  her  pure  lip  bore 

Beautiful  shone  as  the  early  day ! 
And  would  you  see  her,  the  angel,  Faith  ?  — 

When  life  seems  dark  to  your  tear-dimm'd  eyes, 
Ye  may  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  snow-white  hand. 

Pointing  aloft  to  the  far,  bright  skies. 


70 


STANZAS. 


I  love  the  music  of  the  wave, 

I  love  the  night  wind's  song; 
I  love  to  hear  the  storm  king  cheer 

His  frenzied  host  along  ; 
I  love  all  nature's  thrilling  tones, 

I  love  the  notes  of  art  — 
But  better  far,  than  all,  I  love 

The  music  of  the  heart. 

I  love  the  tints  of  beauty  laid 

Softly  on  leaf  or  flower; 
The  trembling  light  that  gilds  the  night, 

And  wraps  the  midnight  hour ; 
I  love  the  sunny  warmth  and  light 

From  the  glad  sunbeams  stole  — 
But  better  far,  than  all,  I  love 

The  beauty  of  the  soul. 


Stanzas. 


I  prize  all  heaven's  precious  gifts, 

Laid  on  the  earth  or  sea; 
The  lowliest  flower  that  decks  life's  bower 

Is  beautiful  to  me  : 
I  value  every  ray  of  light 

That  gleams  below  —  above; 
But,  oh  !    I  value  more  than  these 

The  smiles  of.  those  I  love. 


\ 

r) 


THIS  P'  -  ^   L,  Li 

An 


YB   1 21 16 

GENERAL  LIBRARY  •  U.C.  BERKELEY 


BOD03SclM3b 


